


Amor Vincit Omnia (Love Conquers All)

by Breath4Soul



Series: I Knew You Before I Knew Me [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel Sherlock Holmes, Captain John Watson, City of Angels (movie) Au, Fallen Angel Sherlock Holmes, Falling In Love, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft's Meddling, Requited Love, Sherlock To The Rescue, Somewhat spiritual, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism, War, angel au, angels among us, life after death, surgery scenes, war appropriate violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2018-12-24 03:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12004008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: Amor Vincit Omnia = Love Conquers AllIt starts in Afghanistan. At times Captain John Watson gets a sense of a cold presence lurking as he fights to save lives as a surgeon and soldier. His world is shaken with a series of encounters with a mysterious stranger. He finds himself enchanted with this impossible, confounding and brilliant being, that belongs to a different world.Sherlock is an ethereal being (angel) who acts as travel guide to the dying to the great hereafter. He becomes fascinated by a human, Captain Watson, when he sees how hard he fights to save lives. He follows the army doctor from Afghanistan back to London as his unusual affection for Captain Watson finds him breaking all the rules. He becomes swept up in a desire to join Watson and experience a human life.Will he use the gift of 'free will' to sacrifice immortality and the only life he has known for a chance at love?Inspired in part by City of Angels (movie) 1998





	1. Dustoff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlocksSister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/gifts).



“Keep moving, soldier. Dustoff inbound.” Captain John Watson's voice strains to rise above the the wails of the wounded and the gunshots slicing through the stale desert air. All around the small unit of medics, bullets ricochet off the rocks and send little geysers of sand erupting as they impact with the earth. 

The effluvium of death; the copper-penny tang of blood and thick stench of charred flesh, mixes with sand and nearly chokes Captain Watson's lungs but he continues to bark orders. "Double time. Across the clearing."

There is nothing stealthy about the small unit, carrying four wounded soldiers on gurneys between them. As they snake their way forward through the flaming wreckage on the outskirts of the small town, they are attracting quite a lot of unwanted attention. They break into a clearing and the gunfire intensifies, striking too close for Captain Watson's comfort. 

“Give us some bloody cover fire, Stinson. We’re fish in a fucking barrel,” Watson snaps. A tall, brown haired medic breaks off, drops to one knee and whips his rifle around to return fire at the nearby hill. 

As the unit hustles across the unforgiving desert sands towards the awaiting Chinook, they move past a tall figure standing perfectly still; serene and untouched by the violence all around it. Its lean frame is draped with a long, dark coat that billows out behind it and dark curls dance over its alabaster skin. Its silver-blue eyes track the soldiers as they pass close to it. It is unseen to all but the young, wounded soldier on the gurney. 

The soldier on the gurney is a boy, really, maybe nineteen, with no threat of stubble on his smooth, desert-sun freckled face. He reaches out his dirt and blood encrusted hand towards the figure as they pass and it lifts its thin, white hand in reply. Fingertips nearly touch but, before their hands can meet, Captain Watson steps forward and firmly grasps the soldier's outstretched hand in his own.

“Hold on, Private. Nearly there.” Watson's voice is low and firm. 

The wounded soldier glances back at the figure in the long coat who frowns then disappears. The soldier turns his wide, green eyes back to Captain Watson and nods weakly.

____________________________________

The rising whir of the engine and pulsing thump of the blades drowns out the screams of pain and the shouts of medics as the Chinook lifts straight up. The erratic pops of gunfire and a distant explosion can still be heard as the helicopter banks sharply to the west and each medic grabs onto nearby equipment to stabilize it. 

As the rotors pitch into high gear, everyone inside the helicopter freezes as if the very marrow in their sun-baked bones has turned to ice. The hot wind grabs at straps and fabric but all are still and silent; breath held and waiting to see if they will be shot out of the sky by ground-to-air missiles.

Captain Watson locks eyes with a new medic. A virtual stranger that is on his first mission with the unit. His big, blue eyes reflect the raw fear Watson is too disciplined to allow to show on his own face. 

_It is what it is._

Either they pass unscathed through this moment or, in a fraction of a second, this makeshift mobile medical unit and the 13 souls within will meet a fiery end. 

Captain Watson closes his eyes and can see it with perfect clarity; there will be no time for pain or fear if the rocket hits its target. Just a fiery explosion that rains debris on the desert below. A graveyard of twisted metal to be covered over by the howling sandstorms and baked beneath the soaring temperatures of the Helmand Desert. 

A peacefulness settles over Watson at the thought. An end to the vicious, bloody, exhausting chaos - the unending war raging, within and without.

There are far worse ways to die. 

Captain Watson has seen them firsthand.

In the corner of the helicopter, the figure in the long black coat stands, unseen, in a semblance of military parade rest; feet shoulder-length apart and one hand grasping its other wrist at the center of its back. From beneath a furrowed brow, its icy blue eyes observe Captain Watson. It tilts its head to the side and listens to the dark, irenic hum of the Captain's thoughts.

The helicopter continues to climb. The war-scarred desert below shrinks to a dark smudge of black against blinding, sun-burnished tan. 

The greatest danger passes. 

Everyone exhales and, quickly and methodically, goes about their task of caring for the wounded - as if they hadn't just stared their own mortality in the face.

Captain Watson’s adept hands move swiftly over the young man before him; assessing wounds and rapidly calling out orders. All around him, the small team works to fight back death’s hold; restoring airways, keeping hearts beating and stopping blood loss. They are an elite group, a highly-skilled and well-oiled machine, yet, they are fighting the clock. The injuries are severe and the ‘golden hour’ of effective trauma care is dwindling for the wounded soldiers. Camp Bastion is the only hope for these men now.

"Camp Bastion. Get on comms and call it in, Tse," Watson orders, skilled hands never ceasing their work as he stitches up the shredded flesh of the young soldier. 

The figure watches as the waning lifeforce of the wounded boy reignites; a snuffed fire given oxygen once more. It feels the shift in the threads of the tapestry of existence as the soldier continues on, woven back into a pattern he was meant to be snipped from. The pull of this young soldier's new path on the lives of others is like an engine suddenly running out of tune. 

The figure steps closer, listening to the Captain's rapid-fire thoughts; observations, diagnoses, reasoning, and problem-solving swirling in an intriguing whirlwind. It pulls back when the Captain’s dark blue eyes, hardened by embattled grief and determination, flick up and sweep over it. Something about those eyes are knowing… _accusing._

Though it knows it cannot be seen, the figure blinks away from that time and place.


	2. Something

“No. No! I'm - I'm not ready!” The wounded, young soldier claws at the gurney, thrashing violently. Captain Watson remains at his side as three soldiers wheel the young man's bed into the triage area. 

Camp Bastion military trauma hospital is the epitome of controlled chaos. Gurneys, laden with Afghan civilians, wounded British soldiers and a few Americans are attended by a swarm of medical personnel assessing and stabilizing as fast as they can. The sharp smell of disinfectant stings the nose and crimson blood sloshes on the white floor. The din of urgent orders and cries of pain ebbs and flows under fluorescent lights. 

The hospital is the busiest Watson has seen it in the five occasions he has visited. Warm spring weather has ushered in another fighting season and a dust storm the day before provided insurgents with enough cover to secret homemade bombs along main travel routes. These have done as much harm to unlucky Afghan men, women and children as the soldiers that were the intended target. 

Captain Watson glances around, getting his bearings. It is clean and brightly lit in a way that is jarring to those used to the grit and hodge-podge, make-do accommodations of medical care on the front lines.

As medical staff rush to and fro, he is grateful for the “de-ranking” of Camp Bastion that values the medical experience of him, and his team, over rank or any arbitrary sense of territory. His men have blended in among the camp's medical personnel, providing welcomed support. Yet, they remain easily distinguishable by their battle weathered, dirty and tattered appearance. Watson naturally keeps tabs on them; his sense of personal responsibility for their safety never waning, even in this relative safety.

The soldiers move away to unload more casualties and Watson is left with the thrashing young soldier he has taken as his personal charge since he threw the Private over his shoulder and carried him out of the line of fire.

“It's alright, lad,” Watson says firmly. He pins the wounded soldier's arm down with one hand while the other applies pressure to his re-opened chest wound. Red is pooling over the tattered desert camo green and browns, like spilt ink on paper. “Keep calm.”

“Nurse,” Watson shouts and two nurses rush to his side. One helps to restrain the wounded young man and the other assists Captain Watson in slipping a mask on him so that they can get him back under sedation. The Private continues to struggle, mindlessly fighting those trying to help him, a drowning person panicking and defeating efforts at rescue. 

Captain Watson reaches into the young man’s shirt and pulls out the two round ident discs. He swipes his thumb over them to wipe the blood away from the raised stainless steel surface.

O Positive  
300062668  
MCDONNELL  
HWN  
M  
RC

“We're going to get you patched up, Private McDonnell.” As Watson crouches to lock the boy in a reassuring gaze he finds the young man's eyes wide with terror and awe. He is gazing over at an empty corner, his lips moving soundlessly in something like _'Please, no. Please.’_

Captain Watson follows his gaze over to the corner. The hair at the back of his neck stands on end as he tries to discern what is there to cause such fear. 

He feels... _something_? 

It’s not a new sensation. At times he gets a sense of a cold presence lurking; hanging over his shoulder. 

_Death, stalking him?_

He usually dismisses such dark musings as the byproduct of an overworked and battle-weary mind pulling tricks on him. 

“Don't want to go, Sir…” McDonnell's voice quivers, barely slipping through the mask over his nose and mouth and, Christ, has the boy even gone through puberty properly yet? He sounds so young. 

“Don't you go anywhere, soldier. That's an order,” Watson says firmly.

McDonnell is taking deep, ragged breaths of the sedating gas in his mask and the panicked edge in his eyes has dulled. He reaches up and clutches Watson's forearm tightly, then nods at him with determination. His expression speaks of gratitude and relief. Then McDonnell’s grip loosens and his eyes slide closed and his hand falls limp to the gurney. The moment he slips into unconsciousness, Watson's demeanor flips, like a switch.

“Triage 1. Code red him. External hemorrhaging. Bullet still in there. Scan him to locate. Prep for emergency surgery. Push 2 liters O-positive. I’ll take him,” Watson snaps out to both nurses. If they are surprised by his curt and forceful orders, born of the necessity of battlefield triage, they don't let it show.

“Yes, sir,” they reply quickly. One slips the red tag on Private McDonnell's toe as the other rushes to clear an operating theatre. The remaining nurse begins prepping the young man for surgery by cutting away his uniform. 

Before Captain Watson moves away to scrub for surgery, he turns back to the corner the boy had been looking at, and steps towards the shadows. He studies the space for a moment, mind racing and his hand clenching and unclenching at his side. 

Watson purses his lips, tilts his head slightly to the side and narrows his eyes. 

_Is something there?_

The unseen figure steps forward and leans in so that it and Captain Watson are nearly nose to nose. With a furrowed brow, it listens to the Captain’s tumbling thoughts as it studies his eyes. He is looking directly at it but not really seeing it. The spark of curiosity burns softly in the man's dark blue depths while the lines of worry and confusion crease the corners of his eyes. 

_Intriguing._

_This one is different._

A contradiction on so many levels; a complex microcosm of beauty and resilience flourishing amidst the harsh, unforgiving sea of death. And sometimes… _sometimes_ , it is almost as if the Captain can see. 

_Impossible._

Watson searches the shadows in front of him.

 _Something_? 

He blinks rapidly and takes a deep breath. The air feels thinner; slightly chilled with a sharp tang of - of _ozone?_ It makes him shudder and take a step back. 

Watson is a practical man; not prone to fantasy, superstition or religious fervor. More truthfully, not willing to surrender, to some unseen entity, what little sense of power and control he can retain within this unending fight for the lives of the men around him. However, war is a surreal place. So much of it is outside the scope of typical human experience that it seems to make nearly anything possible. Watson has seen too many bizarre, unexplainable, improbable things. Now, perhaps because the boy had been so young and so obviously afraid, the very idea of such an unassailable presence hovering out of sight sparks a flame of angry defiance in Watson.

“No. Not today,” Watson growls, glaring at the shadows. He gives himself a mental shake and turns away, marching to pre-op to prepare for surgery.


	3. Going Home

“Shit! More pressure. Here. No, here! Clamp that,” Watson barks. It is five hours into the tedious and delicate surgery and McDonnell has taken a sudden turn for the worse. Watson's hands move rapidly, stitching and clamping faster than should be possible, especially in his state of extreme exhaustion, but crimson red gushes anew over his fingers. The arteries are tearing like they are made of rice paper and there is nothing left to stitch together. All around, the doctors and nurses are rushing to help, the monitors are screaming, instruments clack and orders are barked. 

Beside the bed, a boy of 19 stands, looking down at the eviscerated mirror of himself. His red hair is no longer matted with dirt and blood. His fair, sun-freckled skin is unmarred by the shrapnel that tore through it. He wears crisp, new army fatigues with McDonnell embroidered over the breast. The nurses and doctors pass through him as they scurry around the room in a frenzy of activity. The noise and bustle of the world is muted to him.

“Is that - am I?” Wide, green eyes lift from the body on the operating table to the ghostly pale and statuesque figure in the corner. He recognizes the man from the desert. But he knows, as he had at that first glimpse, it is not a man at all but something _more than_ a man. It glows softly against the shadowy world of the operating theatre; incandescent and as if its very being radiates a welcoming peace. Private McDonnell finds he wants to trust it now. “That’s me?... I’m... dead?”

The figure gives a quick shake of its dark head back and forth and its curly hair takes seconds too long to settle, like the air around it has less gravity. 

“Observe.” Its voice is deep and rolls out like thunder. It stirs a soft vibration in Private McDonnell’s core like the reverberation of a struck bell. “That is your _body_. Your _body_ is dying. You are obviously not merely a body, William McDonnell.” The figure gestures at the young man.

McDonnell looks down at himself. He holds up his translucent hand and studies it. His eyes are fixed in fascination on the shimmery semi-transparent appendage as he turns it over.

“Oh,” he says softly, a peaceful awe washing over him, like warm sunlight. It is gentle waters of loving comfort lapping at his feet. He finds he wants to sink into it, to surrender, to slip beneath it and let it carry him away. 

“Billy.” He lifts his gaze. The ephemeral figure has its head tilted slightly to the side and its brow furrowed in confusion.

“Everyone calls me ‘Billy.’ Only my mum-” A panic steals over the young man’s face and he steps closer to the operating table. “Oh, my mum. What about my mum?” 

On the table, the body jolts and the monitor beeps out a abrupt escalation in heart rate. 

“Supraventricular tachycardia,” Captain Watson spits the words like curses. “Push 1.5ng/ml Digoxin.”

Billy’s eyes are now panicked, fixed on his body on the table. “Oh, God… She won't understand-”

The figure sighs softly and appears standing across the table opposite from Billy. “She will... _Someday_ … You will see her again.” The figure steps forward with its hand stretched out in a placating gesture. Its voice is deep, certain and soothing as it rolls over Billy. “Things go on. And then, her time will come and she will join you. Others watch over her.”

Billy looks down at the body splayed open on the table. Men and women rush in frantic motion all around him and yet they are already starting to fade, to slip into smoke, like something from a dream. The only one pulsing in and out of vibrancy is Captain Watson. Billy's eyes are drawn to him, watching the strange play of light each time the Captain touches the body on the table.The figure watches him too with a slight edge of caution and irritation as it regards him.

“What happens now? Where are we going?” 

“Home,” it says simply and reaches out its hand over the body. “Come along, Billy. I'll show you the way.” Billy looks up and nods slowly, taking the offered hand. A bright light appears behind the figure and then the figure is beside Billy, looking towards the warm, pulsing light. 

A voice cuts through the haze.

“I’m losing him. Shit… McDonnell? Stay with me, Private.” Billy turns away from the light, towards the table where Captain Watson is urgently working to repair his broken body. The image of the Captain is thrumming through the misty gray of the operating theatre like a light through the fog. 

“Don’t you go anywhere, McDonnell. I gave you a fucking order,” Watson bites out. His voice is straining, breaking; angry insistence overlaying desperation and panic. His hands are in McDonnell's chest, massaging his heart, feeling the weaker and weaker stirrings of it.

“He is... fighting for me.” Billy looks over at the figure. “I think… maybe, I should try... try to fight.” 

“Christ, yes, McDonnell! Come on, soldier,” Captain Watson mutters as the heart in his hand gives a flutter. 

The figure narrows its eyes and fixes Captain Watson in a cold glare. It shakes its head again, returning its attention to Billy. 

“Your fight is over, Billy,” it says somberly and sternly. “There is nothing more to be done here. The vessel is too broken... You _cannot_ return.” 

Captain Watson continues to rhythmically squeeze the fragile heart muscle, coaxing it to take up its natural rhythm. He is muttering under his breath, his eyes snapping to the various monitors. 

“Get the internal paddles ready, may need to shock him,” Watson barks out.

“We need to go, Billy,” the figure says slowly, as its eyes return to the young man standing by the table.

“Oh…” Billy hesitates as he looks at Captain Watson then down at his own body. There are tubes and wires and metal instruments sticking out of that once familiar form. His chest cavity is gaping, his ribs spread and held with a large metal contraption. There is _so much_ blood and even as he tries to recognize that decimated body as himself, everything begins to swell into a sensation so sharply painful it feels as if he can't breathe. He lets go and steps back from the table “Alright then.”

On the table, the body of McDonnell jerks and Captain Watson feels the heart’s wall tearing in the palm of his hand.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No. Just-” Watson grabs at gauze and shoves it into the chest cavity as a wellspring of blood sluices around his fingers. Each pump spills more into the chest cavity. Even as he frantically pulls out the soaked cotton and rams in more, the other doctors and nurses begin to step back and go still, some dropping their heads and some turning away. All knowing the inevitable result of such a rupture in the heart. 

“Christ, no. Just - shit- just hold on, McDonnell. Come on... McDonnell?…” Watson's voice drifts off and his hands keep moving, his eyes burning and the cardiac arrest alarm blaring its damning defeat. “Someone kill that bloody alarm!” 

A nurse switches it off and suddenly the room is eerily quiet. There is only Watson’s laboured breathing. He tries for a few seconds more, blood slicked fingers scrambling with clamps to find something, anything, to keep the young boy from bleeding out. His eyes lift and harden. 

The figure freezes as dark blue eyes fix on it across the room. The expression is full of anguish and determination, defiance and desperation and it can't look away. A thrill strikes through it, like lightning, splitting open a strange ache in the pit of its stomach. It has been seen by the newly dead, the delirious and the dying but never like this - never like it is a man - a human - flesh and blood.

 _‘You can't have him.’_ The thought comes through from Captain Watson so startlingly clear and with such conviction that the figure sucks in a breath.

Everything in the room stands still as they stare at each other. Captain Watson is covered in blood, wrist deep in the young soldier's chest, hand cupping the broken heart and trembling with emotion.

Captain Watson at last breaks the spell by looking down at his own hands and the whole world lurches forward again in a cacophony of motion and sound. The figure blinks and blinks, trying to recover.

“Come on! Come on! Don't do this. Don't-” His hands slow, then stop as the black reality of the situation swamps him. He reaches in, gently cups the heart one last time, squeezes and waits. Seconds tick by with no response. The young man's heart is an empty paper sack, tattered beyond repair. 

“Billy,” the figure says softly, shock still lingering on its face as it turns away from Captain Watson. Billy turns towards the light and it surges to drown out the operating theatre. Its brilliance bleaches the detail from the room like an overexposed photograph. The clock on the wall stands still as, in the space between heartbeats, there is only the brilliant, warm glow, vibrating through Billy and pulling him in.

“It's so beautiful,” Billy says stretching out his hands as he steps forward. 

“Can I ask you something?” The figure glides along next to Billy, leading the way. 

“Anything,” Billy replies with a relaxed smile.

“What was the best thing?”

Billy's smile widens and gains a precocious edge. “Annabelle Listrom. 7th grade. Kiss on the old wooden bridge on a warm summer day in late July.” 

“Are you certain?” The figure tilts its head as if doubtful and Billy stops and nods, his expression going soft and wistful.

“Oh, yeah,” Billy asserts. “I was so in love. It felt like… well..." He laughs softly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he gazes into the warm light ahead. "A bit like this, actually.” 

The figure nods slowly but its brow remains furrowed in confusion as they turn to walk forward and the light consumes them.


	4. Lost

\------

The room is suffocating. Airless. Watson slowly draws his hand away, braces himself with his fists against the cold metal table and hangs his head. “He's gone,” he mutters down at the table, shock and pain edging into his tone. 

When he lifts his eyes again, he stares straight ahead, jaw clenched and expression hard.

“He was just a kid,” Captain Watson grits out and his eyes are bloodshot, glassy but burning fiercely. “A fucking kid that hadn't even had a chance to live.” He slams his bloody fist down on the table and the instruments clatter and clank to the floor. 

Nobody moves to stop him as he storms out of the operating theatre, shedding his blood-smeared smock and gloves into the bio-hazard bin as he goes.

\-----------

In the darkened stairwell, Captain Watson hunches with his head on his knees and both his hands spread over the back of his skull. He can't make himself small enough. He can't stop shaking. He can't stop the feeling that his own skin is going to split open and something wild and frenzied is going to crawl out of the shell. 

Nothing feels right. 

His insides are wriggling. Winding and unwinding. Unable to decide what to do. The tangle of emotions is overtaking him. 

He can't scream and he can't cry and he can't save one fucking person.  
Not.  
One.

It hurts.  
Black and heavy.  
Crushing his chest.  
He can't breathe. Can't breathe. Can't breathe -

“Inhale,” the figure whispers as it materializes from the darkness to crouch in front of Captain Watson. 

Watson lifts his head, sucks in a deep breath and chokes. He stares straight ahead into the darkness, struggling to bring air into his lungs, blinking against the sparks of white edging his vision.

“Exhale. Slowly,” the figure directs. 

Watson lets out a slow, jagged breath that wheezes into a low moan. He crushes his eyes closed, tears squeezing out the corners.

“Fascinating.” The figure’s eyebrows climb to beneath its curly, black fringe and it pushes closer, head tilting in curiosity. Its voice is a soft rumble in the void. “You hear me?” 

Watson continues to struggle to make his lungs work. Wet trails have cut paths down his cheek and are dripping off his chin. His jaw is clenched tight, but he does not hide his face. He presents it to the empty darkness, as if in defiance of that chill lurking. His mind is reeling, spinning so fast and with such chaos it hurts to listen to.

> What the fuck happened?... _Supraventricular tachycardia..._ Could have - should have - _Cardiac massage longer?_ Restore blood flow… so much blood… _Myocardial rupture_... laceration or tearing?... Room so big, too crowded… So many hands and not one… _Fucking helpless_ \- worthless - _Lethal arrhythmia_... 1.5ng/ml Digoxin... Should have shocked him? _Just a kid_ … papillary muscles like rice paper… Didn't - Should have - _aortic dissection_ \- Fighting - Always fighting… _What against?_ Lost it. Lost _him..._ Lost. **So fucking lost** …

“Shhh,” The figure whispers. It reaches out, hovering a hand over Captain Watson's brow and tracing the lines of his face. It can't touch. Might hurt him... but it aches to provide some comfort - to restore this beautifully passionate and determined man to himself. It can feel the Captain's devastation, helplessness and hopelessness like a gaping wound of darkness. 

Watson's eyes open and the figure freezes, breathless, staring into those shimmering, liquid blue windows. For the first time in its enduring existence, it feels small and out of its depth. It can visit and listen in on a human's most intimate thoughts. It can, from the shadows, watch every moment of their lives unfold yet, in this moment, it knows that it knows nothing. The depth and breadth of the universe on the other side of those blue eyes is the only truth and it is unexplored, unobtainable. 

In an endless moment, it teeters there, wanting to pull back the veil and reveal itself fully to John Watson. Wanting to join him in that intimate moment. It feels compelled to answer the man's gift of vulnerability with equal measure. 

Just as the figure makes up its mind to take this risk, the door on the landing above them flies open and they both startle at the jarring noise.

“Captain Watson.” A young woman with chopped black hair pulled into a tight ponytail and features pulled equally tight salutes Captain Watson’s back and stands at rigid attention. Watson straightens immediately. 

“Tse,” he acknowledges, not turning to look at her. “What is it?”

“Large casevac. Next helicopter inbound in 7 minutes. We’re scupper. It's all hands.” Her voice is crisp and professional but lowers slightly as she gets to the end of her response. Her shift in tone quietly and respectfully communicates that she knows he is exhausted and struggling with having lost a patient but they need him to fight on. 

“Right. Be there in two.” His voice is firm and authoritative. It reveals nothing of the grief and doubt flooding him moments earlier. Yet, the figure can see how that pain still lingers on the edges of the Captain's dampened aura. 

“Yes, sir.” With a final salute, Tse turns and leaves. 

As soon as the door slams shut, Watson slumps a little. He scrubs his hands briskly over his face, eradicating the evidence of tears. He lets out a slow breath and his face hardens as he stares off into the emptiness for a moment. He sniffs, one side of his mouth rising in a somber grimace, before his expression goes blank. A thick mask of remoteness and indifference slips into place before the figure’s eyes and it can't help but feel like something precious and rare has slipped away.

“Right, then.” Captain Watson rises to his feet. “Into battle.” He gives a nod, that the figure can't help but think is directed at it, then he pivots and marches back towards the operating theatre.


	5. Rook Death

Henry Nahyt hovers over the operating theatre. He looks down on the tops of the heads of the army surgeons and nurses working to save his life and considers the poetry of the intricate dance happening below. 

Red and white and green and gold. 

There is a man clothed in white, a surgeon. His hands are sweeping, plunging, pulling and stitching within a sea of red. Such carefully choreographed motions. He is an anchoring point, his golden blond head like the sun around which all the others are swirling. They spin away and glide back, joining in the delicate and precise interplay. All the immensity and complexity of the universe distilled down into this ballet.

A desire stirs in Henry to capture this beauty and share it with the world. It is so clear now. The universe is, in essence, a tragic love story. All its dark beauty; an eternal serenade that is echoed from the largest celestial bodies to the smallest atoms. The raw forces of attraction and the cold, senseless devastation inherent to existence. 

He turns towards the door and starts to drift. He feels the pull of her; her sadness like a black string tugging at him.

“You shouldn't leave.” The deep voice rumbles up through Henry, shaking the earth and air, rattling molecules in his very being. 

He turns and his eyes find the figure he hadn't previously noticed in the corner. He is instantly struck by its beauty. It is a work of art, full of impossible contrasts; skin like flawless white quartz set against stark black hair. Plush lips and oval face punctuated by sharp cheekbones and nose. Wide, almond-shaped eyes that are piercing in their intensity and brightly burning, like the sun reflected on the surface of the ocean. 

Exquisite and haunting. 

“You're death,” Henry gasps, sliding back towards the door. Fear still prickles at him, though it is dulled by a remoteness; as if everything that is happening is a step removed, and muted by a soft peace flowing through him.

“Quite the contrary.” The figure looks down at the little book clutched in its long, pale hand. “If I wished to sever your ties with your corporeal form, I would not warn you of the danger of straying too far,” It says briskly, glancing towards the operating table and the blond surgeon. It closes its book and tucks it away in the inner folds of its heavy trench coat. It takes a step towards the table.

“Your vessel is damaged, Henry Nahyt.” Its eyes return to the surgeon working on Henry’s body and it tips its head towards the doctor. “Captain Watson is a skilled surgeon, however, if you leave now you are unlikely to be able to return. You will become untethered. When difficulties arise, your distance from your corporeal form will prove fatal.” It does a sweeping gesture towards the body being operated on. “Logically, if you wish to continue the life of Henry Nahyt, you must stay and help Captain Watson fight for your life.”

Henry hovers closer and looks down at his body on the operating table. It looks small and broken. He has seen much death in this war, far too much, and he can’t feel anything for that empty shell. He turns back towards the door.

“What about her? Was she hurt? Is she alright.” He can feel her, pulling on him.

The figure tilts its head to the side. “Her?”

“Diana, a reporter.” Henry’s smile is wistful. “I'm her cameraman. She's brilliant and fierce yet, somehow, has so much heart - such compassion… and I can't help - I love her. She doesn't know. I don't even know if she…” Henry’s face darkens with sadness. There is desperation in his eyes. “What I feel for her - I've never met anyone like her and I don't think I can bear it if - I don't think I want to continue if she's...” Henry lifts his trembling hands and slides them into his shaggy, brown hair, gripping tightly. Frustration and anguish contort his features.

The figure lifts a hand and pauses the rambling and frantic man, stretching the moment so it can move in the spaces in between heart beats. It traces that thread of connection from Henry back to a woman; scraped and bruised, huddling over a cup of luke-warm tea. 

The figure lingers, tasting the depth of emotions, shimmering off of her like a muddled plume of smoke. She is like an open wound, bleeding regret, fear, heartache and sadness. 

A tear, crystalline and shimmering, is clinging to her jaw. It relinquishes its hold and slowly slices through the air. When it splashes into her cup, the entity snaps back to the operating theatre before Henry can look up.

“She has only minor injuries. She will be fine,” It states, allowing time to flow forward at a normal pace once more. Henry looks up and lets out a relieved sigh, relinquishing his grip on his hair. 

“You sure?” 

“Quite.” It says decisively. “And, I dare say, she has more than general concern for you,” it continues thoughtfully,

Henry sucks in a breath, eyes sparkling as he drifts closer. “Really?”

“I-” The figure furrows its brow and draws its lips down in a grimace as it shifts. “It is not really my area… but the energy I observed is more akin to one I have seen around those that are in love and suffering loss rather than those that are losing a coworker or even a friend.”

Henry blinks for a few moments in disbelief. Then an enormous grin overtakes his features “Yes!” He exclaims, lifting higher. He claps his hands together, as he twirls in the air. “She loves me!” 

The figure puts out a calming hand, its eyes wide with concern. “Perhaps we should not get ahead of ourselves. As I said, that is not my area. I can't be certain-”

“But she looked it? I mean, she - she actually feels for me?”

“It would appear so,” the figure concedes carefully. 

The bright joy on Henry's face shifts into something harder and more focused.

“Well, to hell with this dying shit - I want to live.” He drifts over to his own body on the operating table and gives it a nod. “How do I do this?”

“It won't be easy,” the figure says with a grim frown. “You will endure a significant amount of pain and you may wish you had chosen differently.”

Henry's smirk is lopsided and his eyes are sad but determined. “Never.” He shakes his head back and forth. “But if I don't tell her - if I never take that chance - I won't be able to rest in peace no matter what comes in the great hereafter.”

The figure tilts its head and narrows its eyes, as if trying to understand. Then its gaze shifts to Captain Watson for a long moment. It nods and moves towards Henry swiftly, a sharp determination in its expression and an urgency to its movements, as if it fears that any hesitancy may provide someone the opportunity to stop it. 

It seizes Henry by the wrist and Henry jolts at the searing pulse of warmth and energy shooting through him, like a bolt of lightning, from that touch.

“You will have to go back into your body, Henry.” The warm light flowing through Henry from the entity's grasp on his wrist is making him leaden and he sinks to the earth, feeling more solid. The room loses some of its ephemeral glow; more noise and colour bleeding through. The figure pushes Henry towards the operating table and Henry sits down on it. 

At the figure’s gentle prodding, Henry lifts his legs, swivels and sits where his body lies. Where his legs overlap his body’s, they feel trapped in that heavy flesh. He can feel the itch of the fabric of his trousers, the ache of muscles, the stinging cuts from shrapnel across his right outer thigh. Henry hadn't noticed the absence of sensation but now that that pain is biting at him, he wants to recoil from it. He wants to jerk free of that heavy and battered flesh. However, the figures hand on his wrist keeps him from floating away and its voice is firm, slicing through the onslaught of sensations that are seeping in and overwhelming Henry.

“You will have to dig in, hold on, through the pain, Henry. Whatever you do, don’t leave your body. You will want to give up but you can't. Just remember who waits for you on the other side of this moment, Henry Nahyt.” 

The figures eyes are blazing white as he places his palm flat on Henry’s chest.

“Wait!” Henry reaches up and grabs the wrist of the hand that is against his chest. He is panting, fear rising up to grip him. Everything is moving so fast, barreling down on him like a freight train, and he just wants to stop a moment. “What's your name? I don't even know your name?”

The figure lifts an eyebrow, appearing surprised by the request. “Irrelevant. It is unlikely, should you survive, that you will remember any specifics of this encounter.” The figure begins to push Henry back to lying within his body but Henry resists, gripping its wrist tighter.

“No, wait.” He searches the entity's face; the otherworldly glow is growing more intense and bleeding out the definition of its features even as the sounds of the room and the sensations of his own broken body become more distinct. The hand on Henry's chest and around his wrist is starting to burn. “I'm… this moment may be all I have... Please... You've got a name, don't you?”

“Of course.” The entity blinks, considering Henry for a moment. It looks over to the surgeon and the way it worries its bottom lip with its teeth makes it seem young and unsure. Such an odd contrast to the cool confidence it had radiated seconds ago. At last, it lifts its chin. “Sherlock.”

“Sherlock.” Henry takes a deep breath and nods. “Thank you for this, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock gives a small nod of its head even as its face pinches in uncertainty. 

“Goodbye, Henry Nahyt. I hope we don't meet again for a very long time.” Sherlock says. There is a burst of light and a rush of fire that shoots from the entity’s hand and through Henry’s chest as it shoves him back into his body.

________  
Captain Watson pulls back his hands and looks down at the patient whose shoulder he has been carefully repairing. It is delicate work since the shrapnel has been lodged dangerously close to the subclavian and brachial veins. He narrows his eyes and looks at the monitor where the heartbeat continues to peak and dip in a steady pattern. Nothing has changed about the vitals, and _yet_ … he could swear something just changed about the patient. 

He can’t put his finger on it but he knows better than to ignore his instincts. The hairs are standing up on the back of his neck, his hands tingle and there is something twisting in his gut. He puts his hand flat on the patient’s chest, near the wound. 

Is the patient hotter than he was?  
Tough to tell through the latex of his gloves. 

He glances up at the patient’s face, studying it for a moment. 

Is he smiling?  
Yes, a very small, almost pained smile. 

Captain Watson gestures to the anesthesiologist. “Make sure he is under, will ya? I don’t want him coming out of it and going into shock." He turns to look over his shoulder and catch the eye of a nurse. "And nurse, push some antibiotics into his drip. It can’t hurt to get a jump on any potential infections.”

As the anesthesiologist injects some more sedative, Watson leans over and sets to work again. He picks the little pieces of metal peppering the wound.

“Alright, Mr. Nahyt,” Captain Watson mumbles, pitching his voice lower so that no one else can hear. “I’ll keep on scrapping, you keep on smiling and let’s see if we can’t rook death between the two of us.”


	6. Constant Variable

Wane shafts of London light creep around the wooden scrollwork of the three high windows, casting rays over the mahogany bookcases and thick persian rug of the Diogenes Club’s Stranger’s Room. A muted beam catches the profile of Mycroft Holmes as he sniffs his sharp nose, tips his chin up slightly and narrows his eyes at the figure briskly pacing before him; hands clasped behind the back and long coat snapping at calves with each quick pivot. 

“Have a seat, Sherlock.” Mycroft gestures at the chair opposite himself as he leans back in his own antique leather armchair. His legs are crossed and his fingers smooth along the delicate engraving of the polished wooden arms; the picture of calm control to anyone that does not know him as well as Sherlock does. 

As it is, Sherlock can feel the tension threaded through Mycroft’s every gesture. An irritation and strain that is worn in the pinch of Mycroft's eyes, the slight downturn of his taut lips and the set of his eyebrows. That any emotion at all is detectable in the tightly controlled and emotionally detached panjandrum, is a mark of how serious the issue must be. It only heightens Sherlock's own trepidation; a feeling neither familiar nor enjoyable in the least.

“What is it, Mycroft?” Sherlock ignores the offer, stalking the room in quick strides and shooting a sideways glare at the chair, as if it warrants the irritation prickling under Sherlock's skin. “Why have you called me here? There are other matters I am engaged in that require my attention.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s smile is the barest imitation of tolerant restraint. “Those _other matters_ and how they are impacting your attention are precisely what I am forced to take time from my own pressing duties to address, brother mine.” 

“How unfortunate. Whomever are they to rely upon to mettle in all manner of human affairs?” Sherlock quips shooting him a pointed glare before pivoting quickly, with a snap of coat, and pacing in the opposite direction once more. The needling insult is an attempt to avoid any calm and reasonable discussion. Sherlock knows recent actions will fail to pass any closer inspection by Mycroft. They had little to do with logic and reason. 

Mycroft taps his fingers against the arm of the chair and lifts his chin, obviously considering how to sidestep the old quagmire of arguing over how much interference is _too much_ when it comes to Mycroft's role as a Liaison. His 'minor position’ within British government affords him the ability to protect the interests of their kind and ensure the populace remains ignorant of their presence. However, in Sherlock’s opinion, Mycroft often takes liberties with that power; manipulating and interfering with matters outside the scope of what is strictly necessary. 

They have had many a heated discussion on the topic and Sherlock considers that it would make a fine distraction if Mycroft would engage in such verbal sparring now. However, Mycroft tips his chin back down to his chest and plasters on a forbearing smile.

“Travel does tax the energy. You must be tired.” Mycroft nods at the chair opposite himself. “Sit, Sherlock.” His tone has grown an edge of command.

“I don’t want to sit.” Sherlock pivots towards the bookcase, making the appearance of casually examining the titles of the books displayed there. Sherlock's finger runs along the shelf, bumping against the books like tracing the vertebrates of a spine, awakening the fine layer of dust to flutter into the air and dance among the musty beams of sunlight. A deep affection for books rekindles with that touch, the familiar sight and smell. Sherlock adores the stillness and intimacy of them, like being invited to peek at a snapshot of the author's inner workings.

“Suit yourself,” Mycroft’s voice is cool and indifferent but his right hand draws lightly over the buttons on his fine suit, a subtle tell that he is reigning in irritation. His hand slips into his breast pocket to pull out a small, black leather-bound book. 

“To the point then, it has come to my attention that there have been an unacceptable number of losses in your domain.” Mycroft's finger trails across the page of his little book. “There is the matter of Henry Nahyt.” 

“Nahyt? Am I to recall one man?” Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, feigning indifference. “It's a war, Mycroft. I deal with quite a lot -”

“I shall endeavor to remind you, then,” Mycroft cuts in smoothly. “Mr. Nahyt was your charge. Predicted to depart from Camp Bastion Military Hospital in Afghanistan at 1am, yesterday.” His finger taps the page more pointedly. “Yet… I see he is recovering in post-op with promising vitals.” Mycroft pauses, letting the words hang in the stuffy air. 

Sherlock stiffens a little, fingers delicately tracing the spine of a particularly old volume. The warm brown leather, worn down and textured with age, brings to mind sun baked skin.

“Surely you didn't call me here to discuss one man-” 

“There are _consequences_ when matters proceed... _not as designed._ When things are lost-”

“Not _things_ , Mycroft,” Sherlock snaps refusing to face Mycroft, glaring at the book instead, lest an expression reveal too much. It is apparent, from their many previous discussions, that Mycroft looks down upon humanity as inferior; often sighing over their illogical and emotional behaviour as if they are unruly (and often unreasonable) children to be minded with no small amount of annoyance. He simply does not see them as Sherlock does; the beautiful strength and intriguing sense of playfulness and curiosity - their fascinating capacity to love and sacrifice. Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues on in a more neutral tone. “ _People. Not lost; _lived_. Chose to _fight for life._ He has free will. That is the point, is it not?”_

“Precisely,” Mycroft snaps, his temper slipping. “That is what makes him decidedly dangerous. When a man that was to be snipped from the pattern continues on, he is a loose thread pulling at the weaving and distorting the entire tapestry.” 

Sherlock sighs in aggravation, digits continuing to rub up and down the finely textured spine of the book as he listens half-heartedly to Mycroft's scolding. Sherlock’s thoughts stray, much more intrigued by the old book than anything Mycroft has to say. Each crease and divot is like wrinkles and pores, communicating secrets of its past in a mysterious language of topography. The memory of hovering fingers over Captain Watson's face awakens a deep longing; a burning desire to know what a similar caress on the man's face might tell him. 

“One _ordinary man_ influences circumstances in innumerably subtle and profound ways, transforming people - changing how they think, act, the deeds they do. Which, in turn, influences all the lives surrounding those people. It is like a stone in a pond; a circle of influence rippling out exponentially and shifting everything-” 

“You forgot to mention the children that _never were to be_ and now _will._ ” Sherlock turns towards Mycroft with a slight smirk and a challenging lift of the eyebrows. It is meant to irritate his already irate brother. Sherlock truly cannot feel any remorse over Henry Nahyt who will go on to become a husband and a father, then a grandfather. Of course the shifts are felt, a buzzing, like a thousand little bees dancing over the surface of the the skin, but the sensation is now invigorating, intoxicating, because it is irrevocably linked to a small twist of victory on Captain Watson’s lips and a peacefulness in the fathomless depths of his eyes. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes to the ceiling and lets out a harsh breath. “Do grow-up, Sherlock! This childish rebellion is disruptive and others will be hurt.” Mycroft leans back and snaps his book closed with an air of finality. His features smooth to that cool calmness as he slips the book back in his pocket. “ The rules are for the protection of all. All lives end... Caring is _not_ an advantage, Sherlock." 

Sherlock huffs at this, certain that Mycroft cannot see his own hypocrisy in espousing unemotionality when he has revealed himself to be far too emotionally entangled in matters concerning Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s fingers move up over the top of the old book and wrap gently around it, flirting with the idea of pulling it free from its confines and delving into its bound-up secrets. The silence stretches, like Sherlock's thoughts, reaching across the harsh city, through woods and hills to parched, sun bleached sand and the quenching ocean-blue eyes of one man. 

It is not surprising that Mycroft puts this down to petty rebillion on Sherlock's part. Sherlock can admit that, in the darkest recesses of the heart, there is envy for Mycroft's privileges as a Liaison. The ability to walk amongst humans and be seen, to touch and be touched, is wasted on Mycroft who keeps himself far removed from the world of men, even whilst forced to be immersed. Sherlock knows a similar opportunity to quench burning curiosity would be cherished. It seems cruel to be cursed to spend all of time encouraging people to let go of a corporeal existence, but having no idea what they are giving up - why it is so difficult for them. However, Henry Nahyt had little to do with Mycroft and their feud. 

“Has it ever occurred to you that what I _do_ or do _not do_ has nothing to do with _you_.” 

“Rather a lot occurs to me, little brother, that I have no doubt does not occur to you.” 

Sherlock bristles with the familiar sting of a thinly veiled insult of intelligence. Shoulders shifting in something like a shrug to try to shake off the weight of that cool and calculating stare, Sherlock draws his hand away from the book, turns and walks a few paces to stand before the other shelf. 

“This is not the first, Sherlock. That makes four over the last three months.” Mycroft sits back, eyeing Sherlock sharply. “One or even two can pass unnoticed, put down to circumstance, but four is a clear pattern and one must ask, what is the distinguishing factor? The common variable?” Mycroft pauses, taking up his tea cup from the saucer. He hovers it before his lips, watching Sherlock over its rim. 

“What of this _Captain Doctor John Watson?_ ” 

Sherlock turns quickly, eyes locking on Mycroft’s face, searching it for some sign of what he knows. 

“Watson?” Sherlock repeats dumbly, grateful for a steady voice. The room is suddenly too hot and the walls are closing in. 

“The surgeon. The _only_ [other] constant variable.” The _‘other'_ is implied in Mycroft's tone; Sherlock being the most obvious constant variable. The undertone of threat in that is an implication that culpability (and consequences) falls to Captain Watson should Sherlock persist in subverting the natural progress of things. There is a sharp blade of fear in Sherlock's chest, a disconcerting and unfamiliar sensation. 

“John Watson... is a very good doctor,” Sherlock says tightly, swallowing around a burning lump lodged within the throat. Mycroft is carefully studying Sherlock as he tips up his teacup and takes a small, slow sip. 

“So I gather.” Mycroft’s words are heavy, an edge of reprimand in his gaze. “Nothing more?” He grimaces as he places the cup back in the saucer, obviously displeased with the flavor or, perhaps, it has gone cold. He keeps his eyes on the teacup, his fingers delicately tracing the rim. The only tension is in the corner of his eyes. “Anything I should be made aware of?” 

Sherlock blinks repeatedly, forcing parted lips closed and pulling back on a cold, shielded expression. 

“You have access to his files. You, no doubt, know more than I about the man.” 

“Yes, his records.” Mycroft tips his head to the side, eyes going glassy. No doubt he is paging through the contents of Captain Watson's previously reviewed file within his own mind. “It was… _enlightening,_ ” Mycroft drawls and Sherlock knows him well enough to understand that when he says something is ‘enlightening’ it means he doesn't like what it casts light upon. “ _Respectable_ , though not particularly _remarkable._ ” 

Sherlock's fists ball, jaw clenching on words of indignation. 

“He _is_ different. ” Sherlock insists, feeling the need to explain to Mycroft how exquisitely unique and fascinating the army doctor is, but lacking sufficient words to make Mycroft comprehend. It would reveal far too much to try. 

“In what manner?” The silence hangs heavily. Mycroft at last looks up and lifts his eyebrows at Sherlock, soundlessly demanding a response. 

“He saw me.” Sherlock says. 

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “You are certain?” 

“He looked right at me. Spoke to me.” 

“In what context?” 

“It was… he was performing surgery and he looked at me and spoke to me.” 

Mycroft sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a few seconds, as if it all has become painfully clear. 

“Don't be foolish, Sherlock.” He turns his eyes back on Sherlock and his mouth is set in a thin grimace as if he is burdened with insurmountable disappointment. “He cannot see you. You are revealed only to the dying or severely ill.” 

“He spoke as if he knew what I was doing” 

“Such fatuous creatures are these humans-” Mycroft's tone reflects his patronizing pity of both mankind and Sherlock. 

“I am well aware of their idiocracies and behavioural tendencies.” Sherlock’ snaps defensively, a hand slipping in the coat pocket and closing around that little book of notes. 

“Yes. I am aware that you possess certain _sympathies_ that ease the way of your work, but be mindful not to let sympathy become sentiment. Does it not make more sense that one happens to look in the direction where you coincidentally are standing?” Mycroft makes a dismissive gesture of his hand. 

“You don’t believe in coincidences." 

“A corollary event, then. Eshenbaugh, was it? Even _‘a broken watch is certain to be right twice a day’_?” 

Sherlock growls in frustration, turning away to resume pacing. It was not _that_. Sherlock is not delusional or given to whimsical fantasy. However, Mycroft has an uncanny ability to make the highly intelligent and powerful being feel small, pitiful and stupid. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice is overly kind. It doesn’t suit him. “You have been in the field a very long time. Perhaps, an assignment in London-” 

“No!” Sherlock freezes, glaring at Mycroft; fists clenched at sides and body stiff. “It’s... _nothing._ It’s _not_ going to be a problem.” Sherlock forces on a facade of calm. “Everything will proceed as anticipated.” 

Mycroft nods. His thin lips turn up at the corners. “Good. Good. I am glad to hear that, little brother.” Mycroft rises to his feet. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I do have other matters to attend to." Mycroft swiftly exits the room, his voice trailing after him. "Do take care, Sherlock.” Sherlock's shoulders slump, a frown etches into hardening features as eyes cling to that old leather book, left to gather dust on the shelf. 


	7. Sherlock

Captain Watson flops back onto the small, stiff bunk, and lets out a loud sigh. Beside him, Stinson lies sprawled on his stomach on his own temporary bunk. His face is turned to the side towards Watson and he can see his cheek is already starting to crease with how he is pressing it into the little, flat pillow. 

Watson eyes him for a moment, remembering the determined expression on the young man's face when he'd provided cover for them during extraction of the wounded soldiers.

Three men saved; only Private McDonnell was ultimately lost to his injuries. Tomorrow, the sun will rise over McDonnell's family home and then the call will come - that awful, dreaded call, and other hearts will rip to shreds, never to be made back whole again. Death doesn't just happen to the soldier, it's an explosion, the blast radius radiating out in rings of devastation, leaving a legion of walking wounded in its wake.

He quickly shuts down that line of thought when he feels the swell of grief as sharp and potent as the moment when McDonnell’s heart bled out in his hand.

There's nothing to be gained in revisiting that now.  
Box it away and move on.

With a groan, Watson sits up enough to pull off his boots. He's been standing in them so long it feels as if they've nearly fused to his feet. He flexes his newly liberated toes, appreciating the decrease in weight binding his ankles. 

At the noise from Watson settling in, Stinson slowly shucks open an eye and, motionless aside from that, surveys the surroundings. 

“Alright, Captain?” Stinson mumbles, only giving half his mouth over to speech; steadfastly avoiding waking anything more than he has to. 

“Yeah, fine,” Watson answers reflexively. He doesn't say the truth; that, with less than three hours sleep in the last 52 hours, he feels like death warmed over. That the adrenaline has been the only thing holding him up (besides sheer force of will) and now that it is draining from his system he is painfully aware of every muscle that throbs and aches from strain and overuse. That beneath it all is lurking this haunting agony of fear, doubt and anguish that he can't even begin to touch. 

He is a soldier and Stinson's Captain so he doesn’t say this. All Stilson really wants to know is if they need to be ready to move out soon.

“4 hours 'til we rabbit back to the 5th.”

Stinson hums his understanding.

“It’s just… _strange,”_ Watson says as he strips down to his vest and folds his uniform shirt carefully, placing it beside his cot.

“What is?” Stinson’s eyes have slid closed again and his voice is murky with the pull towards sleep but his brow furrows in an expression of concern, as if he isn’t half drooling into his sheets. Watson looks him over and smiles grimly then slowly flexes his hands, arms, feet, calves. He rolls his shoulders and his spine to try to relieve the strain lingering in them. At last he leans back, half propped against the wall behind the head of his bed with one arm behind his head to cushion it and the other hand resting lightly on his stomach. 

“This cameraman I just stitched. After he started to come back, he kept saying _‘Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you, Sherlock.’_ Like some bloke named Sherlock saved him.” 

“Jealous someone else is getting all the credit, Cap?” Stinson half opens his eyes and smirks at Watson. They are bloodshot and out of focus but he still manages to instill them with that dark spark of humour he is known for.

“Hell, no.” Watson barks a dry laugh. “They can have the credit and the job with it, my thanks… It’s just… It's an unusual name and he was very… adamant… so, I checked with everyone - the reporter he came in with, the soldiers they were embedded with, even the other members of the surgical team - no Sherlock. No one even close.”

Stinson’s body shifts on the bed in a half-hearted effort at a shrug. His eyes have gone closed again and his face is slack. His words drag, coming out in murmured starts and fits that trail off with each little bit. “You know how... some are... comin’ off... happy juice... Could have been... childhood imaginary friend... or… pet… gerbil… _anything_...” That seems to be the extent of coherent words Stinson is capable of stringing together in his current state of exhaustion and seconds after he trails off his breathing becomes thick and steady with sleep.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Watson concedes to the now sleeping Stinson. “Just seemed important is all.” Watson scrubs a hand over his face and relaxes enough to let a yawn crack through him. He crosses his arms over his chest and settles into the cot, listening to the overlapping shush of deep breathing and the occasional rumble of soft snores of the men and women in his unit sleeping. It is such a lulling chorus it is as if they are all parts of one creature.

He stares up at the ceiling for a long moment feeling restless in spite of the bone deep exhaustion. If there is one thing the army has taught him, it is to never stop moving; never stand still. In the quiet and calm everything you out ran when you were merely trying to survive the moment catches up with you - gangs up on you - drags you down. Beneath the stretched-too-tight skin, there is a hollowed out feeling to his insides like an empty drum waiting to be filled. He can’t decide if it is hunger or emotional exhaustion. 

More than likely, it is both. 

He can’t recall the last time he ate and he considers, for a few seconds, pulling himself out of bed to seek some scrat to solve the only one of those two ailments that he can hope to solve at the moment, but he can’t be arsed to move now that he's settled. All that fatigue has caught up with him.

Watson sighs and closes his eyes. Though he tries to focus on clearing his mind, his thoughts drift over the events of the day and catch on those odd moments where something _other_ seemed to hover around him. Consciousness ebbs away, slowly retreating like the tide clinging and swirling in little rushes against the sand. The edges between thought and dream imagery begin to blur. His thoughts take on shape and substance. He sinks into that feeling and the soul deep exhaustion begins to feel like a heaviness; a weight pressing on the center of his chest. He can't move. His body, now completely surrendered to sleep, is no longer under his command. 

On the edge of consciousness, thoughts running thick like honey, the shadows of the room begin to slowly collect until a dark, wispy form in the vague shape of a man looms over Watson's bed. He struggles to understand this shape and to discern its substance and features. 

It's not human. 

Yet Watson doesn't feel threatened. He feels strangely comforted by its presence.

As this thought forms and takes root, John hears a deep rumble that shakes him to his core and shivers up his spine to vibrate at the base of his skull. 

A voice. 

It is whispering, but even this feels like it is shaking Watson apart. Watson strains to discern the words but it feels like drawing close to some sort of shock wave; growing more intense and fracturing his consciousness the more he tries to draw close.

> _“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”_

Every time Watson focuses on the voice the burning in his chest becomes excruciating. With determination, Watson pushes towards it, grabbing onto the wisp of sound and chasing it back towards the end; shedding parts of himself in the pounding waves of destruction. It is pulling him apart and just when he thinks he can't hold on it pulls him free of his own skin to float above his body. 

The sound curls around him then, a warm tendril tugging him up above the tent, above the base, further and further away, until the world below is little more than pinpricks of light against a field of black. He looks across the blue curve of the Earth and there, as he watches, a creature begins to form or, more truthfully, reveal itself; clothing itself with robes of moonlight and shadow. However, Watson instinctively knows this image is for his benefit. He is certain that this entity is, in its purest form, unfathomable. It is the darkness between stars, the center of a supernova, the raw cosmic dust that forms everything.

Watson tries to see that being's brilliant essence within the swirl of light and it stings; burning through him as if every synapse in his head is trying to fire at the same time; sensation and memory and thought all emploding. Everything he is, was and can be seems to be happening all at once.

“Let me-” Watson strains forward against the dizzying onslaught, reaching out to touch that wonderous being.

> _“No… not safe…”_

The words are like a hammer. He tries desperately to cling to that figure but he tumbles, violently thrust away, and then he is falling. Falling, falling, falling backwards, plummeting down faster and faster, until he slams into the Earth. His body gives a convulsive jerk that startles him awake; his body bouncing on the little cot.

Watson sits straight up, hands scrambling at nothing, confusion swirling in his brain and fear pounding in his chest. His body is damp with sweat and he has the oddly terrifing impression that it was his body landing on the bed, as if dropped from a great height, that awoke him. 

His own voice hangs in the air, ringing in his ears, hoarse and desperate as he was wrenched from sleep. 

“Sherlock!”

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate you reading.  
> If you enjoyed this please leave comments and Kudos.
> 
> _Special thanks to my beta SherlocksSister for being a wonderful human being._


End file.
